Where Will Wants Not
by Airlea
Summary: An introspective, one-shot piece. Éowyn prepares to don her armor and ride to Gondor, though her own doubts leave her nearly overwhelmed. A slain soldier named Dernhelm and a determined young hobbit force her to reevaluate her motives.


Author's Note: This is my first real attempt at writing serious Lord of the Rings fanfiction. Perhaps very slightly AU, as I do not believe there was time enough for all this to transpire. Please leave feedback!

This was what it had come to, at long last. One chance, one distant glimpse of valor and glory...shattered without a thought by 'duty' and 'obligation'. An obligation to a people, _her_ people, one that went far deeper than the blood that raced through her veins, the fey blood that would not cease clamoring for freedom. Oh, she knew their reasons...Éowyn daughter of Éomund had always known that the burden of waiting would fall upon her. She had fought against it, bided her time, hoping against hope that this chance would come.

And now that time was at hand, when all who were born on the green earth would know that Éowyn, Shieldmaiden of the Rohirrim, had not cowered in darkness and caves, waiting for the end to find her. Lord Aragorn must have known she would not hide from the Doom that faced them all, though even he had misjudged her. _I am no less a warrior; my courage is yet untested, but it shall not fail me._ And yet...they had denied her. And now she would deny them their peace of mind, dying in battle amidst innumerable, nameless soldiers.

There was little time, now; her decision must be made and she must act upon it, else face the responsibility that she yet bore to her people. Éowyn shivered to think what awaited her if she remained in Rohan; should the Lord of Gondor and Théoden King triumph over The Enemy, she would have only the cold bower that haunted her desperate mind. And if the strength of Men should fail, there would be nothing more than a brief, empty wait for slavery and death.

The darkness would come; He would cover the sun with black filth from the mountain, that jagged, raging summit from which all manner of poison and death ceaselessly roiled. It was but a heated whisper; the people of Rohan dared not speak of it. Yet, through some mutual fear they knew where it lay, and now Éowyn found in herself the name for the darkest pit in Middle Earth; _Orodruin..._ And as she strapped on her scabbard, still without a blade, she wondered if fate should bring her there, knowing it would not. Men would fall shrieking in that land, and she did not doubt that her end would be in the ravaged, war-torn lands of Gondor. An end with honor, with glory, and none could say she had died in fear. Éowyn braided her hair tightly about her head and grabbed the discarded helm she had taken in the night. As she moved to rest it upon her head, she noticed the blood staining the rim.

Éowyn neither blanched nor recoiled; instead, she used the clean linen of her tunic to wipe away this remnant of death from her sight, as she wished to wipe it from her mind. As the blood came away, a name was revealed, inscribed within the leather lining of the helm. An image grew in her mind's eye; a young man, proud and afraid, facing his destiny as she strove to change hers. What would he have thought, this man, if he knew that Lady Éowyn wore it; not to protect loved ones, a wife and child, but to rebel against the very life he strove to maintain. She could sense his disapproval; it was in her brother's voice, her uncle's gaze; it was even in Lord Aragorn's words. She moved again to don the helm, but the tears that suddenly fell from her eyes left her too shaken to move.

"I shall not be caged. My life shall be forfeit so that others might live. They shall know I am a warrior. You fought, Dernhelm," she whispered in the dim light, "Do not deny that I am worthy of a blade..."She warred with the shadows in her mind, but fought only with Éowyn, and received no solace from her embittered heart. It was for naught that she implored the shade of her slain soldier; he was an image only, a symbol of all that she wished she could become.

It was long before she rose from her despair, and when she at last stood on shaking legs her face was drained of color, of life, of emotion. She felt nothing; only the emptiness of defeat, of being found wanting. Her chance had come and she would let it slip away, a dream she once held close and now lacked the strength to carry. She dropped the helmet of Dernhelm and unpinned her golden tresses. _Why should it matter, now? They shall ride and Éowyn shall be left alone, as she has so often in the past. There is no place for her amongst the Riders of the Mark, and there is naught for me to protect. _But as she turned to face her empty destiny, she heard a voice. Unable to place the accent - at once peculiar in its familiarity and yet quite pleasant - she followed the sound down an empty hallway. There, she could see that in an empty corner of the courtyard this soul spoke aloud, unaware of her presence.

"What could someone like me do to help? I'm not made for warfare or riding horses. He would never allow me to go along. Merry Brandybuck will once again be left behind. And to think, all this because Pip and I didn't want to be left behind from Rivendell! I suppose Elrond was right; what could a pair of silly hobbits from the Shire possibly do? We just got ourselves in over our heads trying to help Frodo!" There was a clucking sound of self-reproach. "But Frodo never thought he would prove to be the last hope for Middle Earth, either. He certainly never thought he could do anything…Oh! I wonder if he and Sam…" The speaker trailed off abruptly, as though afraid of voicing his fears. But after a moment's silence, he continued his ruminations along a different path.

"What would Pippin think of all this? He's gone ahead with Gandalf. I wonder if he's not causing a stir in that city, Minas Tirith. Strider said they've never seen hobbits before. Well, I hope my cousin makes a good impression!" A fond chuckle, then, "I suppose I shan't see them again. All of them, off to battle, while I wait here for good or ill!"

Éowyn watched, fascinated by the scene unfolding before her. A child - no, not a child - a _holbytla_, struggling with his own desire to fight and his fear of being a nuisance - or worse, being left behind. She was brought back to her own inner struggles, though now she saw how selfish she had been. The people of Rohan were frightened; they saw in Éowyn the strength of a warrior, the wisdom of a King. But if she were forced to remain behind, she feared she would fail them. She felt isolated from her people; they all had someone to protect, someone to miss…someone to love. It was then that Éowyn realized how truly alone she felt. _There are none for me to protect, and none shall protect me. If I were to fight, I should still be alone. They would not know if it were Éowyn who fell before the ranks of the Dark Lord's forces. And yet I would not be idle… _She heard the hobbit, Merry, speak again; his voice was small yet resolute:

"…I should do my best, and die alongside my Lord if it should please him. After all, the Shire is part of Middle Earth and I must protect it, even if there is no one to remember me…I only wish I could swim the Brandywine again in the summertime. I will go, then, and ask Théoden King to ride into battle with him." 

How strange it was that this little one was willing to fight for a land he might never see again, in a battle he could never hope to survive. He was of such small stature that he would never be able to control a horse in a charge, and would certainly be lost amidst the thundering hooves. Éowyn felt a sudden sympathy for the hobbit; his request would certainly be denied. He, too, would be left to wonder if his friends should ever return. Suddenly, he turned and strode towards the gathering riders, where King Théoden took council with Éomer. 

She did not hesitate a moment; Éowyn turned and strode purposefully back to the small alcove where she stowed her gear, gathered from the abandoned belongings of soldiers dead or badly wounded. Her mind felt clear and strangely untroubled, and she finished buckling on her armor. The sword she had taken was newly sharpened; its owner had died ere making a single stroke. It fit well within the scabbard, a reassuring weight at her side. Last of all, she took the helmet, smoothing the crest of horsehair and reverently setting it upon her head.

"I honor your strength, your courage, your spirit. I shall honor your memory, Rider of the Mark. Dernhelm shall ride again into battle, and Merry Brandybuck with him. If we ride to our death, so be it; but we shall not be denied our chance." So saying, she donned her cloak and headed towards the stables. They were all but empty; only Windfola whickered at her approach. She had already saddled him, and he snorted eagerly to be away, riding with his kin. It was only a moment before Éowyn had led the good-natured steed out of the stables and amidst the ranks of soldiers.

King Théoden had only just refused to allow the holbytla to ride with the Rohirrim. His eyes had turned and scanned the row of soldiers, and Éowyn caught his gaze. Their eyes met only briefly, yet this young Merry Brandybuck had gathered her purpose in that solitary moment. But he was swift to leave, for he felt out of place and ashamed to be left behind.

It was not until after the ranks had been assembled and final orders for preparation had been given that Éowyn had a chance to seek out the hobbit. Her voice and bearing did not betray her; she found him looking disconsolately to the north.

"_Where will wants not, a way opens, _so we say," she said quietly, looking down into the hobbit's eyes, "and so I have found myself." She saw hesitation in his gaze, and prompted him. "You wish to go whither the Lord of the Mark goes: I see it in your face." Understanding lit his face.

  
"I do." Came his steadfast reply. Éowyn allowed no more than a brief nod. 

"Then you shall go with me. I will bear you before me, under my cloak until we are far afield, and this darkness is yet darker. Such good will should not be denied." _As it was also denied of me, _she added silently, "Say no more to any man, but come!"

"Thank you indeed!" Merry replied. He took a solemn stance, but there were notes of gratitude in his voice. "Thank you, sir, though I do not know your name." 

Dernhelm smiled then, for all remaining doubts and fears had fallen away. "Do you not? Then call me Dernhelm."


End file.
